This is my last cigarette, said the serious writer more to himself than to anyone else: he’d pulled the shutters down, switched off the phone and sat in front of an empty desk inhaling. This doesn’t have to be your last one, said the cigarette, and the writer was surprised at the sexy voice. He felt like giving it a strong name, like Barbara. I think you’re panicking, he said to her. She sighed, blowing smoke, tickling his throat with memories of the many moments when smoking had given him unearthly pleasures. There’s nobody like me, Barbara hummed, nobody so forgiving and so attentive to your deepest, darkest needs. The serious writer nodded, conscious of his loss, and crushed her on the last breath.

Cool. But why am I logged in as Michelle Elvy? I’m not Michelle Elvy. I’m merely married to Michelle Elvy. And I look after her children. Am I for this reason to be forever in her shadow? Am I to be defined solely in relation to her? I am oppressed. Hear me roar — meekly.

See, now I want a cigarette. This is gorgeous. Like when your knee’s all healed and the scab’s ready to pick. That much fun. Tomorrow I will be sniffing smokers and thinking of you. It’s beautifully done. ‘There’s nobody like me, Barbara hummed…’
No. There wouldn’t be.